Rally Cap
by SogniDoroBella
Summary: Rumbelle-centric AU. Paton Rumfield is a single father doing his best to raise his six year son, who is enamored with baseball. Coach Bell was nothing like he expected. And Paton has never felt more out of his league.
1. Chapter 1

"Easy, open your eye slowly," Belle directed, cupping the small chin and examining the darkening bruise. She loved coaching, and she always felt horrible when any of her players was injured. Worse when it was a child. Worst of all when it was so early in a season that they hadn't even played a game, yet. "How's it feel?"

The little boy gave a small smile. "It doesn't hurt too much."

Her finger ghosted over the purpling skin, just far enough aside to catch the cheekbone, low enough he might have escaped a black eye. "How does a juice box sound?" She was trying to keep him occupied and wondered if she should try calling a parent again. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, and the only other child from the team still around was a little girl named Moraine, who was at the concession stand with her mother.

"Bae?" the male voice behind them startled Belle, and she twisted with a small frown. "This is—"

"Papa!" the boy exclaimed, jumping up and immediately throwing his arms around the man in an impeccable Armani suit, with no regard whatsoever for the dust coating his practice clothes.

Belle rose, frown fixed in place as the boy she knew as Neal was clearly right at home with this man. His father? Possibly grandfather? She could never tell these days. Four practices and the tragically clumsy boy was nearly always dropped off and collected by either his mother (who Belle privately cared little to spend much time around), or more often by a dark haired woman always toting a little dirty-blonde haired girl barely under the peewee team's age minimum.

The man was patting the boy's back gently while giving Belle a piercing glare. "Where is Coach Bell?" he asked sharply.

She stood to her full five foot two, bristling. "Wh—"

"Coach Bell," came the clipped reply. "It's not a difficult question, dearie." He stepped back, hand cupping the small chin in much the same manner as she had when the accident first happened a several times since. "Bae, where is your coach? I'd like an account of this."

The boy nodded toward her. "Right there, papa. I missed the ground ball."

"I should say so," he agreed dryly, before turning his glare back on the woman before him.

"I'm Belle, the coach for the Aces. Unfortunately, the ball got the best of Neal about forty minutes ago in practice. The grounder he mentioned, caught the tip of his glove and caught him on the cheek. I'm terribly sorry, but he should be fine in a few days once the bruise fades." She shifted slightly, irritated that this man left her rushing to explain herself like she had somehow done something wrong.

He dusted a hand over the bench and took a seat, one hand on his son's shoulder to gently steer the boy toward him. It was strange to see such a man, so brisk and cool toward her, taking such care and such gentleness in each gesture. He peered into the boy's eyes, then looked carefully around the eye.

"He hasn't displayed any signs of concussion," Belle supplied. "No head ache, bruising shouldn't even lead to a black eye…" That piercing look again left her silenced. She bit her bottom lip and zipped up the bag containing the practice balls, glancing around for debris in their dug out, even though she'd had the team clean it immediately after practice now a full half hour ago. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cassidy, we called the number left on the permission slips, but we only reached voicemail." She had, in fact, left two voicemails. A quick glance to her phone confirmed no missed calls.

"Rumfield," he replied, the words sounding automatic and making her blink in surprise. "Cassidy is my ex-wife's surname. Bae, please wait in the car."

The boy side stepped his father and wrapped his arms around Belle, taking her by surprise when he gave her a quick hug. "Bye, Coach Belle, see you next week."

"Bye," she murmured, careful not to squeeze too tightly. "Ice that bruise again when you get home."

His grin was priceless as he scooped up his small bag and his little glove that was horribly stiff with newness and mostly responsible for the boy missing the ball in the first place. It was brand-name and hard to handle until it was properly broken in. The rest of the team was using donated gloves, all well-used.

"Coach Belle?" the man asked quietly, standing easily and giving her a shrewd once-over.

"Yes," came her confident reply, squaring her shoulders and bracing much in the same way she'd braced herself every time she played catcher and was facing a runner determined to plow her way through to home base.

He pulled a card from his pocket and a pen, quickly scratching out a number. "This is my number, please use it should there be a need in the future," came the business-like reply. "Milah, Bae's mother, isn't known for her efficiency. I can assure you I will always answer."

Relief flooded her, he wasn't blaming her. And she could appreciate parents who actually took initiative. Much of this awkward conversation could've been avoided had she been given his number on the waiver of liability and registration forms. "I-I'm sorry, I thought his name was Neal?" she asked cautiously.

"His middle name, yes. As I said, my card. Please add me as a contact. And may I have the contact for the director of the program?"

She blinked in surprise, having barely accepted the card and pausing mid-motion of tucking it into her bag. "Well, my contact numb—"

"The director, _please_ ," he repeated shortly, last word dragged out in a way that was far from pleasing. "I have a call to make to his pediatrician concerning that bruise."

Belle took several moments to scramble for a pen and paper before accepting the engraved pen and small notepad he offered, fumbling with the pen's unfamiliar weight to scrawl a number and a single name. She returned both as quickly as she could, schooling her features to calm professionalism. "I'm glad you plan to have his injury checked. Please let our director know when his doctor allows him to resume practice."

"Your director will be hearing from me," he answered succinctly, tucking the information into the breast pocket of his jacket. "Good day, Coach Belle."

"Goodbye," she replied, managing to save the sigh until he was in his car. With a grunt of irritation, Belle shouldered the ball bag and quickly carried it to the trunk of her car. Two more trips and she had the bats and her own bag accounted for, though her knee had begun to ache steadily in the last ten minutes. They were due for rain tonight for sure. And she would be due a call from one Mr. Rumfield. Hopefully, he would forgive her when he discovered the number was her own. Belle French, director and founder of the "Step Up to the Plate" program. She'd originally created the foundation to expose children in impoverished areas to the sport of baseball, in an attempt to escape the all too familiar world of demanding parents and indulged children. It was alright, though. She'd handled countless parents like Mr. Rumfield both in her years associated with baseball.

Climbing into her car, she caught sight of the time and cursed roundly. Five twenty seven. Twenty seven minutes after she was to meet her stylist to ready for tonight's charity event. As if on cue, her phone rang, and Belle turned over the engine, scooping up the phone and hitting the speaker button. "Carmine, I'm on my way!" she promised. "Ten minutes, tops!"


	2. Chapter 2

Paton Rumfield straightened his tie and couldn't resist the urge to check his phone for the umpteenth time since arriving at the benefit. Despite the doctor's assurances that it was a bruise and would completely heal in a week or so, Paton wished he had skipped tonight altogether. It wasn't like he couldn't simply send in a generous check tomorrow.

Music was coming from the main hall, and he knew the social hour was his best bet to slip away. A short hallway took him to a quiet alcove, and he flipped open his phone and his speed dial number two.

"Hello Mr. Rumfield," came the warm voice at the other end. "Did you leave something at the house?" Leave it to Bae's nanny to immediately assume the best. Mary Margaret Nolan was the best nanny that Paton had ever found.

After a series of employees that simply weren't suited for the job, he'd found her quite by accident at the park one day. He'd hired her immediately, beyond pleased when he'd learned that her qualifications not only included a current AMA First Aid and CPR certification but also a bachelor's degree in early childhood education. She'd left her teaching job that summer and hadn't blinked twice about it.

He shook his head, trying to clear it from the ridiculous concerns that had crowded it only moments ago. "No, no, nothing like that. Is, ah, Bae doing well?"

"Yes, sir," she replied cheerfully. "He's busy looking at some books Emma found at the library today. I can put him if you like?"

"No need," the words tumbled out before Paton had time to process them, and he was glad she couldn't see his flush of embarrassment. Of course Mary Margaret would call if Bae needed him, if the boy showed the slightest signs of anything being wrong. She was the one that caught it when he had the flu last year and strep before that, not to mention the rash that turned out to be a mild allergy to wool.

"We're fine, and he's playing a little quieter tonight, but he's usually pretty tired after his baseball practices," she assured. "If anything comes up, we'll call immediately."

"Thank you," he managed. It was ridiculous. Of course she would call. And of course she eased the conversation to a close when his brain wasn't working to do so. He could hear her husband saying something in the background, and he had enough presence of mind to send regards to the young man. The Nolans were practically second family to Bae. Privately, Paton sometimes thought they were far better parents than he was.

With a scowl at his reflection in the mirror, he tucked away his phone and straightened himself, hands running over non-existent wrinkles in his trousers. A compromise was in order—he would collect himself, manage an hour and a half here and then return to the Nolans to bring Bae home and tuck him into bed himself. Just grab a drink from the open bar, make his way back to his table slowly enough to stretch out the final fifteen minutes of social hour, and then he could coast through dinner and slip out before dessert was served. It was a game plan.

Finding the bar wasn't difficult. The appetizers were decent, and it wasn't long before he had a nice glass of pinot noir. Drinks made everything easier, not only for the soothing effects of alcohol but simply to have something to occupy his hands. Stalling a few extra moments, he took his time finding his table and finally slipped into his seat just before the owner of the city's baseball team, a tall and solidly built man, took the stage to welcome everyone.

"Excuse me," came a rushed voice, feminine and something about it familiar.

With a start, Paton turned to see a stunning blonde attempting to squeeze past his chair. He took hold of his seat and scooted forward, allowing enough space that she slipped past and easily took the seat beside him. It was something in her demeanor that made him take a second look, and his mouth dropped slightly, suddenly torn between her and the man on stage.

"—please give a hand to my daughter, Belle, and her group for all of their tireless work in our community—"

Belle was on her feet a moment later, brushing back a stray tendril of curled hair that had somehow the clasp that held back the rest of her locks. She was wearing a gown the color of champagne, light fabric that clung to her gentle curves and looked nothing like the coach in the dugout.

"you… you're," he sputtered quietly, scowling slightly as he turned to ignore the man whose focus was already turning to the board of directors at another table nearby.

"Coach Belle," she murmured, taking the napkin and dropping it into her lap before she took a long sip from her water glass.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed softly, glad for now that the chair on the other side of both of them remained empty for now. Everyone else seemed enamored with a short PR film that was now beginning, the lights lowered.

She gave him a small smile, straightening slightly in her seat. "Attending a charity event, same as you." Her hand, much more delicate than it seemed holding an equipment bag, now reached out in greeting. "Belle French, founder and director of the peewee league and other recreation leagues for Step Up to the Plate," she finished easily.

Paton stared at the hand, finally giving his head a slight shake as if that might bring things back into something he might recognize as order. "He's… Maurice French is—"

"My father. Owner of the Knights," she murmured, leaning back slightly as the salads were served.

He managed to close his mouth and shifted in his chair slightly. "You might've mentioned that." A glance toward her revealed that she had wasted no time in digging into her meal.

She swallowed a generous bite of salad and took another sip of water before answering quietly, "Well, you didn't exactly give me an opportunity to mention much of anything, now did you."

It wasn't a question, and Paton didn't bother attempting a reply. "It's not every day a father happens upon his son with a nasty looking bruise." He really didn't know what he hoped to gain with the comment, but the words were out of his mouth before he really considered them.

Her defensive expression wasn't going to help matters. "I called the number your ex-wife listed," came her soft answer, tucking away another bite of salad.

"My ex-wife, whom I am sure will have any number of questions about Bae's bruise when he goes to her home next weekend." He wasn't sure why these comments kept slipping out. Other than his lawyer and one (disastrous) attempt at seeing a counselor, Paton kept the details of his private life just that—private. Particularly the complicated divorce settlement. The one that included a generous child-support check that seemed to go directly to Milah and her latest boyfriend.

She set down her fork at this and straightened, turning more fully to regard him, and Paton was taken aback as the lights came up and he suddenly realized how intensely blue her eyes were. "I'm sorry, I'd be glad to speak to her myself. I did leave a message, two actually, with her immediately after it happened."

Paton had the decency to look away. "You did, I'd forgotten, what with all the rush after his practice," he conceded. "I'm sure it will be… fine." It wouldn't but it certainly would be helped by the fact that Belle had called. And that the bruise would be on its way to fading before Milah saw their son. He shook his head as if to dismiss the conversation entirely. "You did…"

The room began to fill slowly with conversation again, and before he knew quite what had happened, Maurice was taking the seat on the other side of Belle. It seemed the seat beside him was to remain empty. It was a relief, really, to be spared half the usual small talk. Belle tucked into the main course with gusto, and he took his time with each bite. A perfectly valid excuse to avoid conversation.

Beside Belle, Maurice carried the bulk of the small talk, Belle nodding when appropriate and throwing comments every so often. Good. Paton could handle this. A little longer to eat the well-seasoned meal before him, and then he would slip away under the guise of a call.

It was a good plan. And he almost managed to execute it, dabbing his mouth with his napkin and with manners that would do Dear Abby proud apologizing for the need to check on his boy. He made out of the room and halfway down the hall before his name stopped him.

"Mr… Rumfield?" She was two feet behind him and hurrying to catch up. This time he was struck by how petite she really was. She'd seemed bigger, somehow, in the dugout. Paton was short for a man, and even he was taller. "I, ah, didn't take the opportunity to ask after your son. I hope you're not leaving because of his injury?"

His mouth pressed into a thin line. Maybe he wasn't a smooth at this as he thought. "I shouldn't have come tonight," he answered, half to himself. "Bae is, as you said, going to be fine."

Her relief was evident, and it made him wonder why he hadn't mentioned it to her sooner. Perhaps because he had been so surprised to see her in the first place. "Good," she breathed, toeing out of shoes that he was surprised to note were flats. Most women used any opportunity to wear heels. "I hope you'll let him continue to play? The other children really enjoy him. He's always so cheerful."

Perhaps he had overreacted earlier today. He'd simply been so concerned for his son. "He loves baseball. I wouldn't pull him from the team," came the quiet promise. "See you at practice, Miss French."

She gave a nod and a soft smile. "Tell him to keep his eye on the ball."

His chin lifted in agreement, a half smile forming at her words before he could help himself. Eye on the ball, indeed. Turning now, he returned to his plan. It was time to go home.


	3. Chapter 3

He had barely climbed out of his Lexus when Paton stopped short and stared at the scene before him. Something like a dozen children were spread across the field, four in the outfield and one of those seemed preoccupied with another team at practice in the adjoining field. He spotted Bae's bright blue Knights baseball cap at third base, though it was clear his son wasn't going to see any excitement in his area of the field any time soon.

A little girl was hunched over the plate, bat held at an odd angle while Belle manned the pitcher's mound. Their coach called for everyone to hold up and crossed toward home plate. She adjusted the girl's helmet and urged her back a foot before adjusting the girl's grip and stance.

Before he really realized he was moving, Paton found himself wandering toward the bleachers. A mother and her two younger children occupied one end, and a young woman that might have been a mother or an older sister sat a few rows up. Both gave him a curious look, and he was thankful he'd at least changed into worn jeans before coming this time. He was very aware at how conspicuous his high-end car was in this area.

"Papa!" came the cheerful shout, a small glove waving from third base.  
He lifted his hand to return the gesture, realizing that Belle was now also aware of his presence, along with a very tall man stepping from the dugout to talk to the next player to bat. Practice, as Paton quickly learned, was a painstaking process and required the patience of saints and seemingly made as much difference as continental drift.

Despite the many encouraging remarks of both coaches, Paton couldn't see an ounce of improvement when practice finally wound down and the children began to collect the last stray ball and the rest of the equipment. Before he could collect Bae, however, it seemed a hearty snack was in order. He waited patiently through crackers and fresh fruit and a juice box and the cleanup that ensued. At least it was apparent they had cleaned up after themselves.

"Didja see how far I threw the ball?" his son asked excitedly, exuding all the energy that Paton found himself jealous of each morning while he downed a cup of coffee in hopes of matching a fraction of it.

He smiled indulgently. "Yes, I saw. Why don't you say good-bye to your friends while I talk to Coach Belle for a minute?"

The boy shrugged. "Okay."

Paton skirted the dugout to reach the field and was about to call to the coach when the man from earlier strode across the field and wrapped his arms around Belle's middle and lifted her easily off the ground.

"Garrett, put me down!" she protest one hand pushing ineffectively until he eased her to her feet, fingers playing at her collar before pulling at something Paton couldn't see.

He was torn between stepping forward and saying something and knowing it really wasn't any of his business. Before he could step forward, Bae was at his side begging to run the bases one more time. "Have at it," he answered, giving him a gentle push forward.

Garrett held her a moment longer, trying to steal a kiss that landed on her cheek. Paton quickly turned his attention to his boy, who was rounding second with a grin and a big wave.

"All the way in!" Belle hollered with a laugh, her arm lifting to rub at her cheek and clearly not looking in Garrett's direction. She moved toward Paton, snagging the water bottle she'd wedged between links of the fence. "I wish I had half that energy," she said quietly for his ears.

"Mhmm," Paton agreed, trying for casual himself as he leaned against the fence. "I noticed he's not throwing as far as some of the other children." It was a bit blunt, but he saw little help for it. Bae would be running to them in a few moments, and he knew how much his son always seemed to try for his approval. It wouldn't matter much to Paton how well Bae did or didn't throw, except that playing was so terribly important to his son.

She shrugged slightly. "He's already improved from first practice. The basic throw we practiced there at the end should help. If he's interested, practice during the week. If he's not, don't push him." Deep blue eyes turned fully on him, earnest and garnering his full attention along with the thin golden chain hanging from her neck, a glittering diamond ring hanging from it.

Oh.

"Mr. Rumfield?" she asked, and only then did he realize he'd missed something.  
"Paton, please," he almost stammered, straightening slightly as if to shake himself back to focus on her words. He was nearly staring, and the ring dangled low, and it wasn't in the least bit appropriate. Catching himself a half second before what might be mistaken for leering, his eyes met hers again. "I'm sorry, which throw?"

She glanced around, waving at a few more children as they ran to meet family members and head home. "Here," Belle strode into the dugout and returned with two gloves, both that had seen quite a bit of baseball. "Stand about twenty feet over there," she nodded behind him.

He wasn't really sure how he came to be standing parallel to the baseline with a ball flying toward his face. Paton flinched, stepping aside and barely managing to get the glove open in time for the ball to sting through the thin leather.

"Sorry about that, thought you were ready," she called sincerely. "Toss it back, and I'll show you again."

Paton fished out the ball and gave it a toss, grimacing when it went far enough left that she had to jog to the side and stretch to snag it.

A giggle came from the dugout. It shouldn't have bothered him in the least, but Paton felt his face heat anyway. "He missed!"

Belle was turning on her heel in an instant, "Phillip, you owe him an apology," she scolded in a non-nonsense voice. "He wasn't ready for my throw, and we don't make fun of people on this team."

The boy dropped his head and scuffed at the concrete floor and managed a quiet, "Sorry."

"Please take the trash bag to the big bin, and then it looks like your mother is ready," Belle directed, clearly not impressed with the reply the boy had given. "We'll start over next practice. Next time you'll have to run bases and explain to your mother why you made fun of someone." She waited until the boy was on his way before turning her attention back to Paton, giving him time to fully collect himself.

Bae hugged the post of the fence and watched on at the short lesson. It involved standing perpendicular to his target, gloved hand extended toward her. She patiently explained that he was to point with the glove where he wanted the ball to go, then throw with his dominant hand. Paton had been surprised at how the simple change resulted in the ball sailing almost effortlessly into the pocket of her glove.

He took a few more moments to be sure he understood the technique, privately vowing to practice with his boy every day the child was interested. "Thanks," he finally said when it was clear his son was losing interest, his own stomach growling for supper.

She gave him a broad smile and started to collect the bags of equipment. Paton shouldered the surprisingly heavy bag that held the bats while motioning for Bae to grab his own things. "Mr—ah, Paton, you pick up fast. Would you, perhaps, have some free time and be interested in helping out at the practices? There's so much to work on, even when Garrett is here and can take a few kids to work with."

The question caught him by surprise, and he was torn between not knowing what to expect with his work schedule the next few weeks. Business could take him in dozens of directions any day. Not to mention that he had no earthly idea what he would do on a baseball field with this odd collection of five to seven year olds. But his boy was giving him that hopeful look, all big eyes, and when he glanced over at Belle, he couldn't stop the words tumbling from his lips before his brain had time to process their meaning. "Why not."


	4. Chapter 4

"Blue Belle, get your shiny lil butt front and center!" came the loud voice, echoing through the living room. If the voice wasn't enough of an announcement, the staccato sound of killer heels would've been more than enough to let Belle know that Ruby Lucas had let herself in.

Belle sighed and stretched slightly, adjusting the pillow under her leg. Practice had hit her hard, and she'd barely managed to drag herself into the shower and down a protein bar before caving to the after effects of a long day on her feet. "In here!" she answered from her couch, yawning hugely as Ruby rounded the corner, hand on one hip.

"Girl, you're not even dressed—scratch that, you haven't even done your hair or make up!" she exclaimed, perfectly red lips twisting into a wince of sympathy. "Flare up?"

She nodded, gesturing to her foot in futility. "Lot of running around today and the first practice of the season that I really pitched. I meant to text, but I think I crashed after my shower."

"Pain meds?" her friend asked, already moving in the direction of the master suite. It didn't take any explaining, and on evenings like this, Belle was simply grateful she wasn't going to be raked over the coals for bailing on girl's night.

Usually Thursday night was theirs, often going out for drinks and dinner. Sometimes a movie. On occasion Ruby could talk her into visiting a club. From the looks of things, Ruby had been scheming to talk her into visiting a club tonight. She wore hot pants, a top that Belle would never feel comfortable wearing, and her deadliest heels.

Belle nodded to the question. "You can check the fridge, maybe you can at least enjoy a few shots." Unfortunately, pain medication and alcohol didn't mix. "Please tell me your team hasn't seen you in that get up. Their parents would shield their eyes."

Ruby laughed, returning a few moments later with the single pill and a bottle of water. " _Your_ team is gonna go running for the hills when they play against the Wolves." They had played together in college for two seasons, roomed together through every training camp, all away games and most of college. Ruby had played short stop and had been the only person on the team that could outrun Belle—which Belle always claimed was only because of her unfair advantage of longer legs.

She didn't bother to rise to the bait. Honestly, with the way things were shaping up on her team, they would be lucky to win half of their games. "It's not meant to be competitive," she sulked. And it was true. But Belle could never fully escape the part of her that was competitive. It's what had driven her to spend years playing little league baseball, enduring the boys club and constant need to prove she could handle the intensity of the sport at that level.

"I know," Ruby sighed, holding up her hands in surrender. She fluffed up the pillow under Belle's foot and fished out the heating pad, turning it on low and wrapping it around her friend's foot. "Where's that fiancé of yours when we need him?"

The words were innocent enough, but Belle cringed and busied herself with adjusting the heating pad.

"Spill it," her friend demanded, taking the rest of the couch and spreading out languidly. "What did he do now?"

She picked at a loose thread in her old raglan t-shirt and sighed, eyes locked on the fabric. There was no point in avoiding the conversation. As skilled as Ruby had once been on field, she was beyond masterful at getting the full story. It was a matter of time before she caved, so she swallowed and gave her friend a side-long glance. "I… don't think it's going to work out with Garrett."

Dark brows furrowed. "What do you mean work out? You've been engaged to him for, like, a year and a half now. What's there to work out? He's hot and mostly nice, and he likes baseball…"

Belle gave a half shrug. "I think I need to talk to a professional about this. But I mean… we don't have much else in common except baseball. We don't really… work."

Ruby's eyes narrowed slightly. "This sounds like a longer story than that. Here's what's going to happen—I'm going to change into those god-awful sweats you keep, order up some Chinese take-out, and then sit here and paint your toes while you spill. And I might need a drink." The last line went without saying.

It was easy to agree to take-out. The sweats weren't a big deal, either, except that even with her relatively long legs for her short stature, any pair of trousers or slacks that Ruby borrowed inevitably became capris. But that was Ruby's problem. "Make sure you order up some dim-sum and sushi," was her only request. "Oh, and grab my blue nail polish. None of that siren-red crap you use on your nails."

"You'll take the red crap you're given and be _grateful_ ," her best friend retorted, sticking out her tongue as she scooped up the phone to place their order. If Belle had been hoping to stall, it didn't gain her much time. When Ruby Lucas had a plan, she worked fast.

In ten minutes she was back, easing up the foot propped on the pillows and sliding into the opposite end of the couch. She tsk-ed over the swelling and discoloration as she examined Belle's problematic left foot. "Girl, you should be icing this down." It was nice to have someone else around to offer a little TLC. Ruby had unearthed the kinesthetic tape and was already cutting the strips and wrapping it around the worst spots. "Can't your doctor do anything else with this? It's not usually this swollen."

Belle sighed, flinching when skilled fingers brushed a particularly tender spot. "My father wants me to go to some doctor at Johns Hopkins that's supposedly pioneered a new technique." Her eyes met her friends, and she made a face. "Honestly, it's not that bad. And the heat feels better right now. I'll ice it later." She hated the ice.

"It's not that great, either," Ruby corrected, settling the heating pad back around it and shaking the bottle of nail polish. "But I know how much you hate the poking and prodding." They'd both had their share of injuries over years of playing, but Belle's had been the worst and left her with chronic tendinitis and an occasional limp after long days on her feet. "Now… Garrett."

She bit her bottom lip, searching for a starting point. Really, even a middle point would do.

"You're still engaged, aren't you?" came the suspicious question. When Belle didn't immediately reply, her friend held up the chain with her engagement ring hanging from it. "Belle…"

"Sort of?" she ventured with a shrug, fingers combing through her almost dry hair.

Ruby snorted. "How can you be sort of engaged? It's like being preggo—you are or you aren't—Oh my god, are you pregnant!"

"No!" Belle quickly retorted. "Definitely, definitely not."

Black lined eyes narrowed, and Ruby turned to fully face her. "No, really, is that why you're acting weird about this? You're sure you're not—"

"I'm not," she insisted, arms crossing defensively. "One hundred percent not. It's impossible."

The dark head shook slightly. "Birth control's really good these days, but it's not a hundred percent. Nothing is unless—." She broke off suddenly and straightened a little, head tilting to regard Belle. "Unless you two haven't… I mean, okay, so maybe it's been a while? For you and Garrett?"

"A while," Belle managed. "I mean…"

"You two haven't…" She spread her hands expansively. It was the conversation that Belle had always managed to avoid, even with Ruby. Her father most definitely had not once ever wanted to discuss the birds or the bees. Health classes, biology, Ruby, and media had provided her with the necessary details for a rudimentary understanding of the 'Miracle of Life.' In fact, Ruby had been the one to teach her how to put a condom on, using the infamous banana demonstration.

Belle shrugged again. "Kind of…"

"Again, Bells, parts of, pieces of, all of… All things I can understand, but you can't kind of have sex. You mean you two never have? Done the deed?"

"We don't really work like that. I mean, he does. He likes spending time doing that. But, I don't really get the big deal…"

Ruby's eyes widened. "He doesn't make sure you're taken care of? Because we need to have a serious talk if—"

"No, not that, but," Belle interrupted. "I mean, I don't really, you know, haven't ever been interested in all that like you are." Or like most people were. There was so many other interesting things happening, interesting things to be doing and talking about. "I get that a lot of people are pretty or handsome or whatever. Attractive. But when you say someone is 'hot' or whatever, it doesn't really mean much to me." She waved at the bottle of nail polish. "You know what, never mind, my foot hurts, and Garrett and I haven't even gone on a date in two weeks, and I think he'd be better off with someone else anyway."

Ruby's head shook hard. "He's lucky as hell to have you," she insisted, "and I'm not saying that because you're my best friend. Has Garrett pressure you about it?"

She traced an idle pattern in the fabric of her sofa. "Not like forcing me or whatever. But he wants more, a lot more. And I don't really care about it. We don't work. And I think he's more interested in his friends at Tipping Point anyway." Belle wasn't stupid. While she didn't go looking for gossip, she'd heard plenty of rumors about her so-called fiancé being spotted at one of the most exclusive clubs in town. Spotting doing more than having a drink and dancing.

"Okay, that's it," Ruby declared, pushing to her feet. "Where's your old Louisville slugger? We have a Hummer to visit."

Belle caught her arm and yanked her back down on the couch. "Granny would have your ass if she has to bail you out for that."

"What makes you think I'll get caught?" her friend asked archly, eye brow lifting in challenge. It wasn't smart to challenge or dare Ruby to do anything.

"It's not worth it," Belle countered.

" _He's_ not worth it. But the cause is great." Ruby grinned broadly, her grin when she knew she was right and not a single person in the world could dare tell her otherwise.

Belle reached over and gave her wrist a soft squeeze. "Thank you." The words nearly caught in her throat, and she was surprised at the emotion. Her father was protective, yes. Maurice French was very protective. But Ruby's loyalty was something else altogether. "But you have a job to do. You promised me red toes."

"Demanding," her friend chided with a laugh, starting to open the bottle when the buzzer rang. "New plan: food then pedi." She returned with plates and food, making a quick trip into the kitchen for a beer for her and more water for Belle before resuming her sprawl. "Belle?"

"Hmm?" she asked, in the middle of a California roll. The rice was perfectly sticky, flavors melding neatly and reminding Belle of exactly why this was her favorite.

"Did you really think I wouldn't understand? Okay, maybe not understand, but, you know, respect?" Ruby looked genuinely wounded, and it was rare for her to show this side of herself. Ruby was the life of the party, carefree, wild. The first in their group of friends to get a boyfriend, and a piercing, and a tattoo, and, well, more or less everything. The only other times Belle had seen her friend so transparent were the three times she was dumped and the week after their final ski trip. They rarely talked about that night. Exuberant was a mask her friend wore well.

Belle shook her head and swallowed the mouthful. "I've never really talked to anyone about… that. No one really seems to get it. Garrett and I need to talk—really talk. Maybe after little league season's over. I think he knows this isn't going to work out. It was really more convenience for both of us." She shrugged.

"Sorry, Bells," Ruby sighed. "If you need to talk about it again… I'm here, yeah?"

Her first ghost of a smile since practice appeared, and Belle nodded. "Thanks."


	5. Chapter 5

"Papa, can we goooooo?" Bae grabbed his arm and leaned as far as he could, his knees sagging.

He shook his head and gently pulled him back on his feet. "We are here to find equipment that you need to play baseball. If you want to continue to play, then you need to practice a wee bit of patience," Paton explained. "And you know better than to pull on people's clothes. We take care of our things."  
His son stared at the floor and shifted from foot to foot. "Sorry."

"Thank you, now why don't you pick out two shirts from the shelves over there," Paton suggested, nodding toward an array of brightly colored boy's shirts that happened to be on sale. His son was growing like a weed, and he could use them. "Whichever two colors you'd like. Make sure they are medium—which starts with?"

"M," Bae answered with a smile. "Then am I going to mom's house?"  
He tried to hide the scowl, but he didn't quite manage it. "Not this weekend, but remember we have practice tomorrow?"

"Oh, right."

It wasn't right. Paton knew it, and he knew that Bae knew it. When he had divorced Milah their son was two. Originally the custody agreement was an even split of time, and he had agreed to cover seventy percent of his son's needs, in accordance with his job. But weeks were shifted at whim, and more often than not, his son was with him. If it didn't bother Bae that his mother seemed happier when he wasn't around, then Paton wouldn't have minded in the least. If he were being honest, he would admit that he preferred his son stay with him these days. He couldn't think of a single point in favor of his ex-wife or the man she was dating these days. Over the last year, it had slowly evolved into Milah having Bae for every other weekend.

"Mom probably had to go somewhere with Killian," was the dismissive answer.  
Paton caught his son's shoulder gently and turned him to face him, trying very hard to keep the next question as casual as possible. "Does she go places with Killian a lot when you're with her?"

He shrugged, already glancing in the direction of the brightly colored shirts. "Sometimes. I went with them last time to the park."

"Did you have fun playing with your mom at the park?"

"She talked a lot to him. But it was okay because Wendy was there, and she's really nice and pretty, too."

He was already making a mental note to find out more from Milah later about this. "Is Wendy his daughter?" If it was, some important details were missing on the information Paton had dredged up on the man. He had told himself it was perfectly reasonable to run some quiet background checks. After all, he'd done exactly the same thing before hiring Mrs. Nolan to watch his son.

Bae shook his head, pushing back a dark lock that fell in his eyes. He needed a haircut, but his son refused to go. He claimed that he wanted to grow his hair out more like his papa. Milah hated it, but he knew she wouldn't have the patience to put up with a tantrum at the hairdresser. That had happened exactly once and she had informed him that haircuts were now his problem to deal with. "Wendy's his friend. She talked to me a lot, and we played on the swings, and she's small enough she could chase me through the tunnels and stuff that the grownups couldn't fit through."

Leave it to his ex-wife to bring a babysitter along on one of the approximately five days she had with her son each month. He should be livid, but at the moment it wasn't worth his energy. "Okay, you have two shirts to pick out, and I need to talk to someone about a glove."

"Are you getting me a broken glove?" came the curious question.

Paton's brow wrinkled as he tried to place the question. "What do you mean broken?"

Bae shrugged. "I dunno, but Coach Belle said my glove's hard to use, and I need a broken one. Sometimes I borrow an extra instead."

"I'll… ask someone about that," he replied. "Two shirts. Which size?" he prompted, nodding toward the display.

"Medium with an M."

Paton watched his son as he fished out his phone and found the contact. Hoping this would be nothing like the moment when he fumbled the throw at practice, he braced himself as the other end rang. A second ring. He didn't know if he was relieved or if it was worse that she didn't answer. "Hello, Miss Fren—uh, Coach Belle, this is Paton Rumfield, Bae's father. I had a question about his glove that I wanted to ask, whenever you have a moment. I'm not understanding him, something about a broken glove. Anyway, so sorry to bother you, we're at the sporting good store, and, ah, I suppose I can catch you at practice." He was rambling now, and he felt his face heat slightly, glad when he remembered that no one in ear shot had any idea who he was calling. "Right, see you then." He quickly disconnected the call, wishing he could simply erase the message.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and made his way to the adult size gloves, giving them a good going over. Various colors and styles were spread out before him, and Paton had no idea why he had imagined he would simply pick up a glove to practice with. To begin with, he really didn't have the faintest idea which brand was worth the investment. Closing his eyes, he reached forward and took the first his hand touched. It was black and seemed respectable enough. Perhaps he might even find someone who worked in this blasted store to ask.

The buzzing phone in his pocket caught him by surprised, and he nearly dropped it as he pulled it out. He tried to keep it on vibrate or silent when Bae was with him, not wishing to seem like all he did was work. Belle. "H-hello?"

"Hi, sorry I missed your call," she greeted warmly. "I would've waited til practice, but you said you were at the store—"

"Yes, yes," he practically babbled, biting his lip to keep from further making a fool of himself. She was clearly wrapped up, quite literally the other day, with a fellow. The ring around her neck spoke volumes. Besides, he was what? Fifteen years her senior. _More than that_ , chided reality.

"I told Bae he needs to _break in_ his glove. New leather is really stiff, and he's missing plays. It's also one of the reasons why he got that bruise—well, and the glove position when he tried to make the catch, but we're working on that. I can show you that, too."

Paton glanced around, thankful that this section of the store seemed deserted today. He caught sight of his son, who was still occupied with narrowing down his shirt choices. "I'd appreciate it. About the glove—how does one break in a glove?"

She gave a laugh, but it wasn't mocking. "There are a lot ways. Some people put it between a mattress and box spring, some take the long way and practice a lot with it. Whatever you do, don't put it in the oven or microwave—"

"The what?" he asked in surprise, lowering his voice when he saw Bae's head turn in his direction.

"You'd be amazed what people do. Oils can make it really heavy—the leather really soaks it up. It's a little weird, but I like using lanolin."

He smiled. "I have some at home."

"Lanolin?" she asked in surprise.

"I work with antiques, it's useful," was his simple reply, noting that Bae had finally settled on an obnoxiously bright orange shirt and a blue one and was returning to him.

"That'll do. Work a small amount into the outer glove, especially in the pocket and outside of the fingers."

"One more question," he quickly put in. "Is there a particular brand you recommend? I need a glove myself if I'm to practice with Bae."

"Rawlings are nice," Belle answered, a smile in her voice, "but I really love my Wilson glove. Either will be great. It's an investment, but worth it. Oh, make sure you get an outfielder or infielder's glove—the longer looking ones. Infielder's glove is probably just fine. But don't grab a round one. Round ones are for catchers."

He quickly returned the one he had chosen to the shelf, quickly realizing it was round. Just to the left was one marked infielder. He grabbed it and glanced around, pleased to see no one had spotted his mistake. "I can appreciate a long-term investment." He wasn't sure why he had said that. Nor was he sure why the smile on his face was growing. She was in a relationship. And years younger. "Thank you very much, we'll see you at practice."

"Bye, Paton. Tell Bae hello from me." And there it was. The reason why she'd won him over so easily. His boy.

"Bye," was all the managed before ending the call and pocketing his phone. "All set?"

Bae nodded, holding up his choices.

"Good man," Paton praised. He held up his new glove. "Did you bring your wallet?"

His son laughed loudly. "Noooo, Papa. You have to buy it yourself."

Wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders, he steered him toward the cash registers. "I hope I saved enough allowance."


	6. Chapter 6

"Who was that?" Ruby demanded, tossing a dress toward her friend.

Belle made a face at the clingy fabric. "There is no way I'm wearing this."

"Try it on first, and _who was that_?" the brunette demanded, reaching for the phone.

She tucked it into her pocket. "A parent."

That insufferable eyebrow raised in challenge. Ruby Lucas better be thankful she was, essentially, a life-long friend at this point. Because anybody else would've been told exactly what they could do with that look. "What?" she asked, eyes rolling.

"A _male_ parent?" she prodded. It wasn't a judgement, more like a wolf sniffing out what she thought might be a juicy secret.

Belle flushed a little, shrugging and trying for casual. "Yes, as a matter of fact. This particular parent is male." It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't like she was going to lie about it and make it a bigger deal. When the silence stretched, she glanced up to see the open stare. " _What_?"

"Your rule. You _never ever_ give out your cell phone number to parents." It was true. She'd learned that the hard way, long before she coached the peewee team each spring.

"So I made a mistake." She didn't make mistakes with this. But to be fair, Paton Rumfield _had_ asked for the number of the director. And maybe she'd written her cell by mistake but maybe some little part of her had wanted him to have her direct number.

Ruby gave her a hard stare that said she wasn't buying anything Belle was selling. "You don't make mistakes like that. Is he attractive?"

"Ruby!" she exclaimed, more shocked to realize she had, on some level, found the father appealing. Yes, he'd mentioned an ex-wife, but for all she knew, he could've remarried. Belle had yet to think to look for a wedding ring. Not that rings said much, considering her own engagement ring was stowed in the small velvet box atop her dresser. There was really no point in continuing that farce any further. "He called to ask me about gloves. That's all."

Her friend was busy sorting through another rack of dresses, handing over four to add to the other five already draped over Belle's arm. "Is the kid a brat?"  
"No," she answered sincerely this time. "Neal's the sweetest. He can't field the ball, and he might hit one in nine pitches I throw at him, but he's always cheering the other kids on. And he tries so hard. It's really cute."

"So the dad's ugly. Or an ass?"

She shrugged again. "He's a very caring father who wants the best for his kid. He needed to know how to break in the glove and what brands were best. And he's possibly helping with practice."

Ruby rounded the clothing rack and took two of the dresses from the bottom to return to the rack. "I thought Garrett was your assistant coach?"

"He is. But he's not always there, at least not mentally," Belle admitted.

"I could've told you that," came the muttered retort.

She chose to ignore it. Ruby had liked Garrett when Belle first started dating him. He was energetic and always had plans, and when he went all in for a party, he was all in. She couldn't really fault him. He remembered anniversaries and dates. He did all the right things, for the most part, but somewhere along the lines it seemed to be unraveling. Maybe it was because he was traveling with the Knights, working with P.R. "We've had parents want to get involved before. This one actually has the time to do something. And he'll show up to all the practices."

Dark eyes narrowed. "Just be careful, okay?"

"I _did_ manage to take care of myself before you and your granny came along," Belle countered. It was endearing, really, to have such a protective friend. But she knew what she was doing. And she was done with talking about this for now. "Why don't we grab lunch instead?"

The dark head shook hard. "No way. You need more in your wardrobe than team shirts and raglan t-shirts and soffee shorts and jeans of various sizes and styles. We're not leaving with less than one dress." A manicured hand squeezed her shoulder and turned her toward the dressing room. "French, you're on deck," she barked with a laugh, swatting at Belle's rear. "Get in there."

Belle squared her shoulders as she entered the restaurant, determined to say what needed to be said. She'd let Ruby stuff her into a dress for the occasion, though it was a fairly modest (considering who had pulled it from the rack) little black dress. In fact, she'd even let Ruby style her hair into a sleek side pony tail, the length trailing down tumbled in soft curls over her shoulder. The rest of this, however, was up to her.

The Maître D was already at the hostess stand, waiting for her. He gave a polite smile and gestured toward the private booth near the back. Her usual spot at Giuseppe's. "Right this way, Miss French."

"Thank you," she murmured, thankful for the cushion of plush carpet under her shoes. She hadn't needed to argue with Ruby about shoes tonight. Her entire wardrobe consisted of flats. In her younger days, Belle had hated heels. She was short, and no amount of shoe was going to change that fact. Her foot injuries over the years had only given further validity to her preference. "I'm sure Gar—"

"Hello, princess." Before she could finish the sentence, Belle stopped short to see her father unfolding himself from the booth. He stepped forward, arms wrapping her in a warm hug.

"Dad!" she exclaimed, returning the hug and pushing onto her toes to drop a kiss to his cheek. "I, ah, didn't realize you were joining us." The whole plan was crumbling before her—the idea to ask the waiter to give them privacy, not coming for their order until Belle had the talk that needed to happen. She couldn't wait a few more months for the sake of even the sweetest of little leaguers. Their team wasn't even competitive. And while Garrett had his moments, he wasn't making or breaking her team, either. If the distance between them wasn't enough, a single causal comment she'd overhead as the press corp wandered through had given her the clarity she needed. She was scrambling to sort this, and it took her a moment to realize her father hadn't paused.

He smiled broadly and waited for her to slide into the seat before taking his own again. "It's been too long. That fiancé of yours called me up yesterday and asked me to join you two. I ordered a bottle of Riesling. Besides, you get so busy once the season starts. I hardly see you."  
Belle returned the smile. "My office is down the hall," she reminded gently. It would be rude to pull out her phone and text Ruby, so she busied herself with opening the napkin and settling it into her lap. Maybe she could pull Garrett aside–

"Well, it seems like I hardly see you. You're always on the go. There he is, my future son-in-law!" her father was up again, embracing Garrett in a bear hug and slapping him on the back.

Cursing to herself, she barely had time to scoot further into the booth to make room. Trapped, quite literally, in the corner. There was no chance to bring this up in front of her father.

"Sorry I'm running late," Garrett apologized smoothly. "Traffic was horrible." He finally slipped in beside Belle, leaning in to take a kiss. "I hope you weren't waiting on me to order."

"Of course not, Belle just arrived herself," Maurice answered. He quickly poured a glass of wine for each of them, calling for a toast before they had even ordered appetizers.

It suddenly occurred to Belle that one of the reasons things had worked so well, thus far, between her and her fiancé was that he kept company so neatly with her father. They had been working together for five years now, dating for the last year and a half, engaged for… what was it four months? She was probably the only woman in the world in America who wasn't sure exactly how long she had been engaged.

"Another!" Garrett called for a second toast before either of the Frenches had finished swallowing their first sip.

"What are we toasting this time?" Maurice asked with a chuckle.

"This beautiful girl, and a wedding date!" he announced chest puffing with pride.

Belle gasped, half breathing in the wine and sending herself into a coughing fit. A what? She coughed harder, trying to catch her breath, hand coming to her chest.

Garrett's hand was on her back now, patting a little harder than she needed, and she reached out for his, pushing it back. "S'okay," she rasped, sucking in a little air and going into another round of coughs that had the waiter stopping to see if everything was alright.

"She choked a little," Maurice supplied. "We'll be alright in a few moments." He leaned forward, clearing the wine glasses out of the way. "Belle?"

She tried to wave off his concern, swallowing and taking a slow sip of water. "Ex-excuse me a moment?" she begged, all but pushing Garrett aside. It took a little maneuvering to slide to the end of the bench, hand grabbing blindly for her clutch. She manage to stand and was clearing her throat as if to prove she wasn't going to start choking again. She'd never been more thankful that she knew the way through this restaurant. It took only a few moments to reach the restrooms, and she felt calmer with every step.

Sinking into the plush ottoman before the powder table, Belle reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone.

"Did you tell him already?" Ruby answered on the first ring.

She was sure her mouth opened, but nothing came out, and as she stared at the phone Belle felt the first roll of emotion well up and a tear running down her cheek. Nothing about this night was going according to plan. She had been so determined to set things straight, and now she had her father and Garrett waiting for her to return to a nice family meal.

"Belle?"

"Y-yeah," she stammered.

"What's wrong? I'm on my way—"

"No," she breathed, swallowing hard and trying for composure. "My father, he was here, too."

"He _what_?"

"Garrett invited him," Belle began, words falling, knowing if she didn't get all of this out right this second, she would be babbling in circles for a while. "And they called a toast and Garrett's apparently decided on a wedding date."

"A _what_?! What day? Did he even ask you?"

"I… I don't know what date."

"Belle, sweetie, I don't… what do you mean you don't know what date?"

"I don't know!" she practically shouted, the tears falling freely now. She sniffed and tried to find calm, but it had escaped her grasp. "I don't know, he just announced it in the middle of the first toast, he's set a date. I don't even know when, and I can't go back out there and talk—"

"Okay, okay, deep breath," Ruby encouraged. "Please let me come and pick you up?"

She rested an elbow on the edge of the counter, head falling in her hand.

"They'll want to drive me home. One of them at least… I… I don't know what to say." Something between a hiccup and a sob bubbled up, and Belle let it. "If I say I'm not feeling well…"

"Belle, I don't think you can put off the talk with Garrett until the end of the season," Ruby stated quietly. "Not when you're this upset about it."

Belle hadn't told her the half of it, yet. And once she did, Ruby was going to hit the roof… but one thing at a time. Her gaze fell to her left hand, and she blinked hard to clear the tears. The whole situation sucked. "He, ah, didn't even notice I wasn't wearing my ring. At least, he didn't say anything about it." They both knew that Garrett was quick to voice his observations. For better or worse, Belle never really had to wonder what he was thinking because he was so inclined to share.

"Can you text him and tell him you don't feel well? Ask him to drive you home? You two can finally have the talk. We can get your car later. If you don't want to do it tonight, then do it soon. Like a band-aid, right off."

"I took a car service," she explained. "I think… I think that's probably best."

She took a slow breath, head lifting. It took a bit of work to find the tissues and bring her streaked eye make-up back into a semblance of order. "Thanks, Ruby."

"Call me when you're home, okay? I'll come over and we can talk. Or chill."  
It made her smile despite the fresh wave of tears. "Thanks."

"Always," Ruby promised.


	7. Chapter 7

It took a series of texts to her father and Garrett and nearly fifteen minutes before she had gathered herself. Belle finally stood and smoothed out the skirt of her dress, scooping up her clutch before finally braving the restaurant again. She'd asked Garrett to meet her at the front and drive her home, claiming she didn't feel well. It was easy to weave her way through the tables at this end of the restaurant, until she caught sight of a familiar face.

Paton Rumfield, seated with a brooding looking man who was as tall as Paton was lean. The other man barely gave her a glance, but Paton's smile was warm.  
Belle returned a tight smile and a small wave, not wanting to seem rude but ready to have this conversation she was facing over and done with.

"Belle?" She'd almost made it past the bar before the soft Scottish brogue stopped her flat.

"Hello, Paton," she returned, turning slowly to regard him.

He stepped forward to close the four feet between them, coming to an immediately halt when she flinched slightly. "Are you alright? You seem upset."  
The emotions were barely under the surface, and she curled her left fingers tightly around her clutch as though it could keep everything in check. "I'm actually heading out, not feeling very well," she explained, reaching for kind and trusting that she didn't sound dismissive. "Friend of yours?" she asked, hoping he might change the subject or return to his meal.

"Business associate," was the explanation. "Jefferson goes to auctions on my behalf." He shifted slightly, giving her a little more space. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to presume, but are you sure you're alright."

"Ready to go?"

She flinched again, surprised to realize that Garrett was standing almost immediately behind her. A glance between to the two men who nodded at one another in recognition left her unsure how to answer. "I… I should go."

"You're alright?" Paton was insistent this time, clearly not planning to leave until he felt she was in good hands. It was endearing, and she could push away the strange play of emotions. She needed a good day of rest after all of this.

"Yes, thanks," she gave a nod and tried to offer a smile. "Have a nice evening."  
He didn't return the sentiment, and Belle was grateful. It would be foolish to think her evening would be anything like nice, at least not for the next bit. But she hoped she'd feel better about this in a few days.

No words were exchanged on the walk to the car, and later Belle was irritated that Garrett hadn't bothered to ask if she was okay or if she was feeling any better. Not that it would've mattered. She occupied the time by picking at her nails, something Ruby would have a fit if she saw her doing. It was a nervous habit, but it was a step up from actually biting the nails. Knowing Ruby, she'd probably treat her to a mani/pedi this weekend. If Belle had her choice, she would go on a month-long cruise far, far away.

The drive was made in silence, not even the radio running. She felt like she was turning inside out, and Belle forced herself to take slow breaths, fingers clenching and unclenching around her purse. It was so tempting to text Ruby. She imagined shouting out her objections in one fell swoop. Or jumping out of the car. It wasn't like her, and she shook off the wild thoughts as they turned off of the main roads. "Can you pull over here?" Belle finally asked as they reached her condo.

"Are you going to be sick?" Garrett automatically asked, already reaching for the power window controls. It was the only comment he'd made since she'd climbed into the cab. His car was his baby– no food, no brushing her hair inside, and definitely no getting sick in it.

"No," she answered curtly. "I… I really need to talk to you."

He shrugged and pulled into an empty space, easing the car into park. "If it's about the wedding date, we can change it."

Her head shook slightly in disbelief. "You didn't even ask me about the date. I still don't even know when it is." She unbuckled her seatbelt and shifted to better face him, squirming a little in the tightness of the sheath dress. "This isn't working."

His brow furrowed, hands spread open, wide. "I said you could change it. But people keep asking, and, God, my mother wants a date. You weren't picking anything, so I figured we could plan for October after the season ends. Everyone says it takes like six months to plan anyway."

"At least," Belle said hollowly, fingers tracing idly over the cool clasp of her cutch.  
Garrett frowned. "October 15th, it's a Friday. What do you need more time or something?"

Her head shook. The last thing she needed was more time in this relationship. Certainty settled around her now, and she straightened a little. "It's not working, Garrett," she stated quietly. "I think we both know that."

He sighed, sinking back into the driver's seat. "So pick a different day."  
"We aren't working," she clarified. "We're not on the same page about anything. We barely texted each other five or six times this week. Our dates are, what, food? Baseball. Work."

"What are you saying?" he asked, hand tightening around the steering wheel. "What the hell—are—are you breaking this off?"

She took a breath and nodded. "This is a farce. You always want to do things I don't want—"

"So go see a damn psychiatrist to figure out why you never want to have sex!" he retorted. "God, I can't believe you're… My mother is going to be devastated."

"Your mother," Belle threw the word back at him, "which is my point exactly. Not you. You're upset the plans changed, but you weren't into us. You're upset you're not getting sex, but you don't care about any of my reasons for—"

"I can't even believe you're saying that! That you're throwing this back on me!" Garrett protested. He yanked the keys from the ignition and shoved open his door, climbing down from the Hummer and slamming the door.

She winced at the gesture, gathering up her clutch and bracing to leave. It took only a moment to find the velvet box with her ring, which she set in the cup holder. She and Ruby had argued over what would happen to the ring. Ruby insisted it was Belle's to keep. Nobody wanted a ring from a broken engagement. But it hadn't felt right to keep it, nor had it seemed right when her friend urged her to hock it and donate the money to her own charity. She climbed out now, rounding the car and keeping several feet back from where Garrett was pacing angrily.

"So this is it? " he asked, and she was surprised to see how red his face was. Anger seethed from him.

"Garrett, I know about August," she got right to the point now. If he wanted the biggest reason, well, now he had it. "The press always finds out everything. I wish you'd been honest with me. I would have at least respected that. Tell your mother whatever you want. And don't worry about the Aces, I'll find another assistant coach.

She turned now to her condo, leaving him silent and frozen to the spot. Honestly, she felt like she should've been sadder about this. Somehow crushed that he'd chosen someone else over her. It had only confirmed what she'd already known. If anything, learning about his side relationship with August only made this easier. She truly wished them well. And it was easier to talk here, in the open and public, though private, space of the parking lot than at the table at Giuseppe's. Despite the emotions in the restroom, Belle felt suddenly numbed.

And she was going to ride that feeling.

It took only moments for her to kick off her heels, and Belle was halfway to her bedroom in search of jeans and her favorite Knights shirt when she called Ruby.

"I'm, ah, home."

"I can be there in ten with a six pack and ice cream," came the sympathetic voice.

"Grab your jeans and boots, I'm going out for steak," Belle retorted. "… and maybe ice cream later."

"Drinks on me," her friend promised. "See you in fifteen."

Belle quickly donned her favorite outfit, twitching the shirt into place and giving herself the first real look in the mirror in weeks. It felt like a weight had lifted off of her shoulders. She would deal with telling her father later. Now wasn't the time to dwell on it.


End file.
